Going Wrong
by SoldierToger
Summary: FOURTH CHAPTER UP. A fanfic focusing on T.J. during his betrayal. NOT 1st POV. Rated for language.
1. TJ, What's Happening?

_Disclaimer:_ All right, you know the deal; I do not own any of the characters of S.W.A.T, copyrighted to their creators, yeah yeah yeah…

_Summary:_A fanfic focusing on T.J. McCabe during his betrayal for his share of Alex's $100 mil offer. Covers the entire ending of the movie (that involves T.J.) and puts in his thoughts and feelings –NOT 1st person POV.

Rated_ PG-13_: some language, suicide

**EDIT February 27, 2010: **Hello all, this is the author here, Toger. I just wanted to drop a little note in here since this fic is being written with such huge gaps in-between chapters. For those of you reading it for the first time, the first chapter reads a little differently compared to the second and third which were written about 4 years AFTER the first chapter was completed. So yeah, style differences, etc. Also, I'll be working on the fourth chapter soon, so that's another year or so difference in writing, hehe. I'm still happy with the way the first chapter was written but I know it could be better. Still I'm not really going to edit it or anything. I'll just leave it as is and ask that if you don't like it, give the second chapter a try and see what you think then.

A further note: I may be altering the ending to this one… We'll see what happens when we get there! Anyways, I'll stop babbling now, promise…… Enjoy!

**Going Wrong**

By: SoldierToger

**Chapter 1 – **T.J., WHAT'S HAPPENING?

"T.J., relax, man. Hondo transported the President like this back in '96. No one had a clue."

Hah. Easy for him to say… Except there are a few problems, Boxer: _You_ don't have an outstanding debt to pay off, Alex Montel -who can get one out of that debt, easy- _isn't_ Mr. President and somebody _does_ have a clue… Thanks to T.J. McCabe.

The officer sat in the driver's seat of the van, hands on the steering wheel, eyes flickering between the windshield and the rear-view mirror. In the back, Boxer used his body as a barrier between the door and Monsieur Hundred Million who seemed content to just sit there and run his pretty little mouth, knowing the lawful limits of the cops around him.

"Hey, my friends. I can double my offer. Sixty-six million for each of you.-" T.J. swallowed despite the mute satisfaction knowing the little punk was getting desperate should've brought. "-All you have to do is let me go, right here. And don't worry, huh. I'll find my way home."

"You got the cash? 'Cause we don't take a check." Damn you, Street. The easy sarcasm in his voice just added to T.J.'s nervousness. Completely unphased, Jim didn't even flinch at the offer while _he_ on the other hand felt, internally, he was sweating bullets.

"Come on, be smart about this. What do you make? Sixty-six _thousand_ a year?" That stung. The mocking beginning and emphasizing ending…

Street chuckled, replying almost bitterly. "Not even with overtime." Too true.

"_Teh_, looser." _Bastard._

"_MAKING THE TURN, AT CHECK POINT TWO." _Sergeant Hondo's voice sounded on his shoulder again. This was it. The inner-bullets turned to AA Shells.

Then came 10-David. "_MY VIEW OF CAR TWO HAS BEEN BLOCKED._" Damn right, it better be.

"_T.J., WHAT'S HAPPENIN'?"_

Nice and smooth… "I got a pedestrian at a crosswalk, Hondo. I'll be on your tail in about ten seconds."

"_ROGER THAT._"

Here we go…

This was just one of those times when he was glad they didn't wear seat-belts. Otherwise, he wouldn't be fast enough. Heart beating, he pulled the lever and forced the door open, unholstering his Custom II at the same time as he hurriedly stepped out of the van, bringing the semi-automatic up to bear on Street and Boxer.

"Hands where I can see 'em, guys. Come on." There was no stopping now.

"T.J., what the hell are you doin'?" Jim asked, staring at him with disbelief in his wide eyes, body visibly tensing up. Boxer simply watched his friend in shocked and saddened disappointment. How could T.J. do this? His friend. Sure, he was greedy and a little on the arrogant side, had too much of a thing for money and gambling, but seriously…he thought he was better than this…he_ was _better.

All right, so far so good, his earlier edginess began to ease off a little, now that things were in motion.. "What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Don't do anything stupid, Street. "I'm taking Frenchie here up on his offer." _…arrogant little prick…_ He cast that French worm a resentful glance and could just _see_ the smug look on his face. Yeah, you hooked one who couldn't resist. Go ahead, _smirk_.

He hated him. He hated this criminal for announcing to the world an incentive to turn him against what had been his life. The prospect of millions… oh its power… Its power to rid himself of debt and grant him the rich life he deserved.

"Now, you guys just be smart. Hands up, Box! Come on. Come on. Hands up! Hands up, Box. Let's go, lemme see it. Hands up! Let's go!" T.J. shifted in place, gripping the Custom II. Inwardly, behind his slightly 'un'-calm face, he prayed the two SWAT officers –formerly his friends- would comply…he knew he couldn't _actually_ bring himself to shoot either of them... Just keep thinking about that money, oh yeah.

Good. Relief swept over him when both slowly began to bring their hands up—

_NO!_ What is he doing!?

The S.W.A.T. traitor flinched and looked back into the van with alarm as the shattering glass echoed the sudden gun-shot and Boxer was thrown to the side. Why'd he shoot him!? "_What the hell was that?! Are you crazy!?_" T.J. shouted, staring in near-horror at his friend in the back seat. "_What the hell was that, Bri!?_"

Gamble had already opened Street's door and had his 'Jimbo' covered now as one of his other 'friends' pulled the side door away from its dock, Alex then kicking an unconscious and bleeding Boxer out where he fell onto the side-walk and from then on, until they left, ignored by all it seemed except T.J.

"He was going for his piece, T.J.-" _Bull shit!_

"_No he wasn't! I had it under control! You didn't have to shoot him_!" No no NO! This wasn't supposed to happen! Boxer…

"What do you say, Jimbo? Want to be a cowboy, huh?" _Gamble you son of a bitch._.

"_T.J., STREET, BOXER. CAR TWO RESPOND!_"

T.J.'s mind raced, his chest felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, weight that pushed down on the empty air that was his stomach. He had to say something! …Oh man, _Boxer_… Fighting to calm himself down, he removed one hand from the Kimber…. But he couldn't stop looking at Boxer as he finally replied, rushing it way too much and stammering, eyes switching constantly between the street and the dying, face drenched in street-light. "We're catching up to you, sarge. Uh. W-we'll be there in about—"

"Officer down! 7th and Hope!" Classic Street. He couldn't release the switch fast enough and could've kicked himself, watching and listening to Jim cry out as Gamble landed a vicious blow to the meat of his shoulder and neck. Well, now they all knew and he could already hear Hondo with Deke shouting 'Move! Move!' in the background.

"_10-DAVID! 10-DAVID, DO YOU HAVE A LOCATION ON CAR NUMBER TWO?_" He should have a clear view.

"_ROGER. CAR TWO IS STOPPED AT 7__TH__ AND HOPE._"

Gamble was hurrying but still enjoying himself…"Do me a favor. Tell Fuller it was me who pulled this off, yeah?" Holstering his gun, T.J. brought out his hand-cuffs and reached to grab one of the pained Street's hands, hurrying to get one end around his wrist, fastening the other to the steering wheel. Had to work fast.

The downed cop still managed a reply while T.J.'s diligent, somewhat shaking hands maneuvered the cuffs. "I won't let you get away with this, Gamble."

"Well you ain't got a say in the matter, do you?" Brian responded, voice heavy with the arrogant glee-ness of someone who has everything…or is soon going to get it and _knows_ no one, nothing, can stop him …Well, they'd have to see about that. Things were already going wrong… Gamble had shot Boxer.

"_SUSPECTS APPEAR TO BE WEARING TACTICAL CLOTHING AND HAVE AUTOMATIC WEAPONS._"

Officer –_former_ Officer McCabe pulled back to just outside the door, settling his M4's strap around his shoulder. Down the street, Deke floored the SUV and civilian cars spun this way and that. He could hear their tires screeching as they swerved to get out of the way and the violent crunch of uncontrolled contact. Had to hurry.

"T.J., don't do this!" Too late now, Street…the feeling was almost enough to somber out the reeling in his stomach. He quickly glanced back at Boxer through the open door, worried, his heart hammering as he breathed. He couldn't stop now even if he wanted to. Just think, millions of dollars were waiting, had to keep going. Forcing himself, T.J. stepped back and out, running around the front of the van.

"I got an officer down! Officer down! 7th and Hope!" Street could be heard half on his radio, half through the open door from where T.J. briefly paused to see Boxer, Gamble and the rest running ahead and into the station. God, Gamble had shot him in the neck! Like in a dream, he felt himself compelled to kneel down and touch Boxer, to make him all right –was he even alive?- but he could already see his friend's blood on his hands…visible as the light washing over them.

"_SUSPECTS ARE ENTERING THE PERSHING SQUARE MTA STATION._"

Lieutenant Velasquez's report on their activity snapped T.J. back to the point of this whole nightmare, get Alex out, get his money. Hondo would take care of Boxer, he knew that.

He could trust him.

After all, one casualty was never acceptable by his standards…


	2. They're Not Coming Back

_Disclaimer:_ As before, I do not own any of these characters. Blah.

Wow, let's see. I posted the first chapter in 2004 and announced the ETA for the second chapter to be the following week…hmm… almost four years later….Ok. Well, I'm very sorry about the wait. Here is chapter two. I'd been meaning to continue this fic, but I just couldn't get it down. It wasn't until recently that I started thinking about it, again though. Thanks for the all the reviews, by the way!!

Warning: There is a little tiny bit of course language/thought process(?) in this one.

**Going Wrong**

By: SoldierToger

**Chapter 2 – **THEY'RE NOT COMING BACK.

Keep going, just keep going that's all he had to do now. It could be done. They would get Alex out and he would get his money. Just…run.. Don't think, don't think about Boxer, run, get on the subway train. T.J. ran quickly down the steps, glancing behind him briefly and stepping around Alex's discarded vest. 

Around him, civilians huddled in the subway exit/entrance, no doubt panicking upon seeing Gamble and the rest run down here. He wondered. What were they thinking of him? They had to have recognized the uniform he was wearing. Did they think he was chasing after those armed men to try and stop them? Probably. He just hoped nobody said anything… Especially something 'cheering' him on or 'they went that way'. Sure that would help him if he lost track of where they went…but they'd be trying to help a cop…and he wasn't a cop anymore; he wasn't part of the team. A traitor, that's what he was. A greedy little rat and that hurt almost as bad as watching Boxer dying on the sidewalk and himself forced to leave him lying there by his own greed--No. Stop it. Chiding himself mentally, T.J. pushed the guilt away with effort, concentrating instead on throwing one boot out before the other, the protests of jostled Kevlar and the weight of the M4.

It didn't take him long to catch up with Gamble, Alex and one of Gamble's thugs also toting an assault rifle, all the while he kept looking behind them, expecting to see Hondo and Street come running around the corner. Frightened clumps of civilians drawn back against the gray and blue tiled walls marked a pretty clear trail. And, try as he might, T.J. couldn't help meeting the eyes of some of those who watched them sprinting passed. There was confusion mostly, some fear… And why not? A man in standard-issue prison-attire and two guys with automatic weapons come streaking by out of nowhere. Who wouldn't be surprised? And shortly after the unorthodox parade comes a cop, decked out in Kevlar and with his handy-dandy assault weapon in hand. Perfectly normal… 

T.J. just shook his head at himself, tuning out the now questioning stares: _Hey, you're a cop aren't you? Where's the FREEZE! POLICE! Bit? _He'd never use those words again.

They reached the escalator and T.J. dared another look back. No sign of their pursuit yet. They were almost to the train, apparently requisitioned for the doors closed in a timely manner just behind them and his new partner-in-crime issued orders into his mic. All aboard. Timing, it was all about timing…this better work.

Gamble abused the plastic interior of the wall eagerly?, impatiently?, "C'mon! Let's go!" before heading towards the rear of the car. T.J. chose to follow Montel and the unnamed lackey; the last thing he wanted to face was Hondo's face when he arrived too late, a confrontation Gamble no doubt lusted for. Vengeance, that's what it was about for the ex-cop; getting even with the damn brass. 

Disgusted, T.J. settled himself restlessly onto one of the immaculate benches across from where Montel lounged, smug as only a Frenchman could be. Monsieur Million must've paid his personal-trainer well to keep him in shape for sudden jaunts through the subway. The little bastard wasn't even breathing hard while T.J.'s heart throbbed up behind his Adam's apple.

"_DEKE! SANCHEZ!..." _He started inwardly. The voice of judgment? No, just Hondo delivering orders. Briefly, he pondered the little black square attached to his shoulder. Even this far down, radio-contact had not yet been severed. Truly, all the separated him from the team was that little black box; he just had to hold down the button. 

Recoiling from the thought, T.J. tore the ear-piece and its wire free and hurled it savagely into the flimsy shadow beneath the Alex's seat. To hell with listening in, he never wanted to hear those familiar voices again… He could never hear them again. But, God how he wished he could've at least heard tell of Boxer's condition… The hate and anger in their exchange after he was pronounced dead at the scene or maybe dead on arrival having arrested in the bus as the paramedics worked futility to save the life of one good cop, doomed by the selfish actions of one bad, two bad. No. One. Brian wasn't a cop anymore, hadn't been one for over six months. T.J. still wore his badge. He felt sick.

To distract himself, he looked to Montel. "You better be good for it," he threatened the self-confident little orange-clad prick hollowly, letting his panting cover the angry quaver in his voice and wishing it could just as easily mask the tremble in his hands. 

"I assure you. If anyone is, it's me," came the reply, laced in feigned sincerity. Prick didn't even bother to hide it, either. Screw him and damn Gamble and his quest for retribution. _Fuck_, it'd gone so wrong… But, it was still going. The team would be waiting for them at the next station. Only they wouldn't be there. So far as he could tell, they were getting away and that much closer to his cut of the hundred-mil… Or rather, the sixty-six mil Alex promised them each at the last minute; T.J. needed to remind him of that. Sixty-six million all his own, a sun-drenched beach, warm sparkling clear waters with schools of fish darting through the shallows betweens one's toes and a Day at the Beach in hand…Not bad. He sucked in a calming—albeit shaky—breath and did his best to espouse the lackadaisical manner of the Frenchman opposite.

"All right." Gamble chose to grace them with his presence at that point, swaggering up and seemed pleased to find them all so comfortably arranged on their seats. If he noticed the discarded ear-piece, it didn't show. 

T.J. watched him closely unable to keep the scowl off his face, but only chewed on his lip in a vexed pause; the walkie-talkie sat, off and forever silent now in its pouch on his shoulder. "Don't forget the new agreement," he interrupted before Gamble could open his mouth, addressing Montel instead, a smugness of his own adorning his face.

Alex's momentary confusion was reward enough. "Of course not," he recovered, flashing that irritatingly suave smile.

"New agreement?" Brian canvassed them both with raised brows and T.J. sensed a readiness to spring beneath the scrutiny as if he worried something might arise to taint his victory. 

So much for trust. "Alex here has graciously decided to up his offer," McCabe continued, feeling confident for the first time that night and even managing to recline a bit before the red backing pressed against the voiceless walkie-talkie strapped to his vest, "Sixty-six million for each of us."

Was it just him or did he just see Alex shift uncomfortably in his seat? Excellent. That's right squirm, prick. You should've kept your mouth shut. You're going to pay handsomely for this fuck-up.

"Great. Perfect," Gamble nodded his approval—why did everything he say or did always come across hurried?—and spoke into his mic.

Alex looked at T.J.

T.J. sneered politely back.

The train slowed to a stop and the lights went out. Time to disembark.

A few minutes later and T.J. glared reproachfully at the gloomy surface crunching beneath his boots as if the stare alone would subdue the stench accosting his nostrils. The M4 tactical lite strained vainly to brighten the murk. He'd been reluctant at first, staring at the grate as Brian had dragged it aside, admitting them to the sewer below, but logic warmed him to the practicality of it all. It was the only way.

He trusted Gamble to guide them out of this; the ex-cop had proven very resourceful so far. Still, that trust had gotten Boxer shot and possibly killed. T.J. accepted he'd never forget it as he studied their dismal surroundings, periodically lifting the rifle's light to illuminate an obscure corner. Shopping carts, tires, ancient microwaves, a toaster, random piles of wood and steel all coated with the omnipresent stench of underground L.A. The first thing he'd buy with his $66 million? A shower.

As Gamble guided them through the warren of tunnels utilizing his bread-crumb trail of phosphorous paint, T.J. couldn't help noticing how little joy that thought brought him this time. Damn this guilt. It surged like nausea, stubborn nausea which rose and fell whenever it felt like it. Mulling over how pathetic he was, he almost missed that they'd stopped and Gamble's spiffy little light once again surveyed the walls. Following after him, he offered his light to whatever the ex-cop suddenly scurried over and crouched beside…and felt his stomach settle like a granite stone in the pit of his gut.

T.J. didn't have a military background like some of the others, but he knew what he saw. "You gotta be shittin' me."

"If they're good, this is only going to slow 'em down, T.J." Like hell it would. 

"This was supposed to be simple snatch and extract," he said sharply. He didn't like this, not one bit. Too many things going wrong… No one was supposed to get hurt.

"Boxer was a threat, T.J." Brian countered, defending his actions.

"Boxer was my friend!" There it was, that anger again and his impatience with Gamble's impertinence.

"He was mine, too."

"Stop crying. You can buy more friends," that aloof, accented voice broke in, tainted with annoyance.

That was it.

Without hesitation, T.J. rounded on the Frenchie, throwing the barrel of his assault rifle in his face, glowering as Alex squinted into the light. "Don't give me any more reason to kill you," he growled, jaw set, finger ready. God how he wanted to. This was all because of _him_. Why couldn't he have just _stayed_ in Europe!?

"What are you going to do? Shoot me?" Certainly.

It was infuriating how the little prick barely squirmed under the assault rifle's vigil.

"You should relax a little bit, my friend. I'm the money here don't forget it."

Dismayed by the wavering of his resolve, T.J. didn't move as Gamble stepped up beside him, grumbling; the campus monitor breaking up rowdy teenagers in the cafeteria quad.

"Look you can go ahead, I know this sucks. Let's worry about it in paradise, all right?" Gamble reassured him, almost gently. No doubt he realized how on-edge his newest partner was becoming if their current situation gave no indication. "C'mon." With one last pat of encouragement, he went on his way, leaving McCabe with the sense of just how trivial his protests were now. Things were in motion that he could never change. So why fight it? 

The barrel dropped back into the low-ready. He breathed deep, eyes flickering to each of them as the group continued on past him, looking for sneers, wary of them. This was going too far. How could've he have let this happen? Damn it! Closing his eyes, he grit his teeth and forced himself to follow. He had no choice.

_Keep your eyes open, Hondo, Street. And for God's sake look down…_

I have a week off for Spring Break. Let's see if I can get a third chapter out, ja? .; I was a little rusty this chapter, but I plan to flush out the next ones.

Thanks again for reading and reviewing!

-Toger


	3. We Have Begun Our Descent

_Disclaimer:_ Still don't own 'em. Nope. Characters belong to so-and-so and so-and-so. Not me.

Author's Note: Ok, so this chapter was already done by the time I posted chapter two up here. I just didn't get around to actually POSTING it. Sorry ^^; I think I was going vocab-happy, too, haha. Anyways, the beginning might confuse you, but no worries, I did it on purpose. Hope you enjoy Chapter 3!

**Going Wrong**

By: SoldierToger

**Chapter 3 – **WE HAVE BEGUN OUR DESCENT

Pride. _Man_, it'd been so clear, clear as the sky that day so baby-blue with only that powwow of white clouds hovering over the distant end of 7th Avenue.

Cap-adorned head held high, a younger T.J. had dutifully followed the back of a crisp black uniform, marching perfectly in line with the rest of the academy graduates striding down the aisles governing the meadow of chairs covering The Garden's arena floor.

The stadium had been alive with flashes, the mayor beaming at his podium. The congratulatory hand-shakes had been strong and the smiles wide.

They'd approached him before he was a real cop for even an hour.

Had he known then what he did now he would've turned Lieutenant Coughlin down flat right then and there… Right?

He blinked. The sky wasn't blue anymore. It was black and murky, the stars shining dully through LA's veil of smog. Maybe that was just his imagination. Peering out the GMC's window, he pondered that tenebrous heaven, straining against the sickly glow of street-lamps manning the sidewalks to spot a single star. Nope. Not one.

For the duration of their remaining trek in the sewers, T.J. had resigned himself to going with the flow. What was done was done; nothing could change it. He'd thrown his little tantrum, waved an angry gun in the frog's face. He was good. Not even the final unveiling of Gamble's intentions had put a hitch in his stride. No explosion meant the team still lived, anyways. And, now he just sat back against the leather-appointed seats, watching the more ambiguous side of Los Angeles pass them by. Good bye, L.A.

"Van 1, Van 2. You have less than five minutes," Gamble announced.

Alex Montel sat beside T.J., but the traitorous SWAT officer paid him no mind now. Of course, the fact that he was keeping his mouth shut this time around helped prevent any more squabbling. Actually it surprised him, how at ease he felt now. His hands no longer trembled, his stomach had assuaged itself at last and he could breathe again. They were getting away. Not even Hondo could stop them it seemed. They were really going to pull it off. No shit.

"_You're _crazy_. You know that?"_

"_C'mon. I already got a crew on-board. We're set. We just need—"_

"_No. You're nuts! I can't believe I'm even having this discussion with you. _This is ludicrous_. What the _hell_ is wrong with you? Uh-uh."_

"_T.J.—."_

_Click._

McCabe almost smiled. He remembered he thought Gamble had gone screwball on him when he called that night following the city-wide broadcasting of Montel's $100-mil offer. The two had never been 'buddies' per-se. They'd never worked on the same crew. Gamble and Street. Boxer and McCabe, that's how it'd always been, but working under the same command through the same situations and a few shared beers after work, they'd been close enough for Gamble to know T.J.'s penchant for fast, easy cash. Ok, well maybe that didn't really define any kind of personal relationship: the whole precinct knew T.J. loved money. They just didn't know how much…or how in over his head he'd gotten. Despite the intense background checks accompanying one's application for S.W.A.T., McCabe knew there was a lot people didn't know about him… How Gamble found out about his debt was still a mystery, but he was just the conniving type of fellow who knew he could use that little fait accompli.

"_Your badge's given 'em patience, but that's gonna run out sooner or later, ya' know… I think I'd prefer ditching the badge to being dumped in the river."_

"…"

"_It'll be like any other routine snatch and extract op. We play it right, we play it clean. No one gets hurt."_

"_Listen to yourself, Brian. You were SWAT. They're not gonna just drop all and let us walk away with Montel, you _know_ that. Be serious, man..."_

"_With your cut, you wouldn't even sweat paying off that debt, T.J. Then spend the rest of your days in Tahiti..."_

"_Brian…"_

"Last car through. Bridge is locked."

"Copy that."

So, Gamble really _did_ nab a jet. Incredible. Though it was probably bad, T.J. felt the need to see this before he'd believe it. Landing a plane in East L.A? Better hope that pilot was as ballsy as Brian paid him to be.

What would Hondo think? Would he be impressed by their ingenuity? He hoped so. In all that time working under him at Southwest, T.J.'s respect for Sergeant Dan Hondo Harrelson never grew ambiguous. Hondo was the real deal; L.A. couldn't ask for better. No doubt McCabe's betrayal infuriated the sergeant, not to mention Lieutenant Velasquez, another man he held in high regard; honest, hard-working, loyal and packing enough back-bone to make an efficient commander. Neither could possibly see T.J. as anything more than a greedy rat now. Regrettable, but they'd get over it.

He inhaled smoothly. Boxer would recover, he told himself; the van's tinted glass couldn't have allowed for an accurate, fatal shot. It was only natural that any wound on the neck or face would bleed a lot. So, in the end, no one was killed just as Gamble had promised. The Feds would catch Montel again eventually, anyways. He grinned inwardly, thinking of Captain Fuller's feckless bellowing as he stormed back and forth and pitied all who would be forced before his infantile wrath in the end. Nevertheless, they'd get past that, too. At worst they'd spend a few months in the gun-cage; Fuller wouldn't sack the whole team over one screw-up…he hoped. Neither he nor Gamble had given them any chance _to_ make a mistake. They were the best, but they were behind this time.

"_Well?"_

"…_The convoy will be the decoy. We'll be taking two units later that night. Montel will be in the second car… I'll be driving."_

"_Perfect."_

"_Brian, I swear to God this better not be some kind of God-damn vendetta..."_

"_Relax, T.J. I can't exactly live off my pension; this is out of legitimate need, trust me. It's about the money." A chuckle. "Jim could never look beyond the badge…not like you and I can, right?"_

"…"

"_So, lay out the route for me…"_

Thinking back on it, T.J. had to admit the plan was pretty sound considering how quickly it'd been assembled. Or had Gamble been planning something like this all along? Possibly. However, he wouldn't let resentment ruin the rest of the night. So what if Gamble had started this knowing T.J. would cooperate. Anyone could stand being 'predictable' with millions in their account.

Within the GMC, Gamble and his lackey exchanged light conversation tinged with the giddiness stirred by victory. Montel joined in occasionally, commenting here and there to ensure his rescuers, his new captors, had no reason to doubt his gratitude and to assure them of the impressiveness of their achievement. T.J. didn't buy a word of it, but he didn't say anything either despite Gamble's repeated attempts to engage him, as well. The former SWAT officer didn't feel much like talking or listening for that matter, especially not to Gamble's bragging about perusing the darker corners of the world for new opportunities, garnering the perfect mercenary's rep as he went. Maybe he'd even do a few jobs for Montel. McCabe doubted it. The opulent prick would probably put as much distance between himself and Gamble's band as possible once this was over. He knew they knew that he needed them and that they wouldn't let him go until they had his money…he didn't need any lingering reminders of this unpleasant drain on his resources—not to mention pride—around. In fact, T.J. wouldn't be surprised if he found Frenchmen in gloves with guns on his doorstep—beach front?-- before the year was out.

Outside, the monotonous view of slate-gray buildings, desolate trash strewn sidewalks and sullen tar began to thin out into still more run-down buildings, checkered with vacant lots guarded by rusted chain-link. His brown eyes lifted to the sight now visible beyond their barb-wire. Skyscrapers, giant crags enduring the pulsing waves of lives inhabiting the sprawling sea of L.A., made up for the lack of stars with their ever-watchful array of sparkling glass.

He stared until a warehouse blocked his view and didn't look again. Instead he turned his attention to the irritatingly repetitive blink of construction lights whirling atop some generic maintenance truck squatting at the entrance to the 6th Street Bridge. Thorough, very thorough.

The cones were replaced after they'd turned, blocking entrance to their makeshift airport. So far, so good.

With rehearsed ease, the two SUVs rolled to a stop angled into the divider, their flashers announcing their position to the incoming plane. How ironic. To come all this way only to be obliterated when the plane lands on them…

This was it; the final leg of their scheme. He prayed it didn't end in fiery death. Taking a slow preparatory breath, T.J. exited the truck, M4 sling across his back, the gun itself supported in his hands. He found the weight, the cold steel, comforting. The bridge at their backs appeared deserted; still no sign of Hondo and the rest of the team. Somehow that did little to allay the sense of foreboding coming over him.

Looking back, he found the rest of group focused on the end of the bridge. The reason wasn't hard to figure out. Flashing lights adorning the tips of its rigid, glinting span, the Learjet had already begun its descent. They watched it coasting lower and lower until the only thing separating the some ten-thousand-odd-pound bizjet's undercarriage from the bridge's asphalt was maybe twenty feet of rapidly diminishing air.

T.J. waited for the fireball.

With a terse screech and protesting puffs of smoke the business jet alighted without kissing the bridge unnecessarily and McCabe felt the group release its breath.

"This guy's worth every penny," Gamble said, chuckling appreciatively.

Brakes squealed and the engines strained as the pilot struggled to seduce his plane to a stop. It made sense to T.J. to step aside and give the pilot all the room he needed, but one survey of the others made it clear their intentions to stay right there. Oh sure, if it came down to it, they'd leap aside; not Gamble, though. By the look of him, T.J. guessed the ex-cop wouldn't move for anything tonight. He'd stare the damn plane down if he had to. T.J. only shook his head mentally at Gamble's foolishness. What else did he need to prove? Besides, Street wasn't watching and neither was Fuller; therefore a useless gesture if you asked him, but who was he to judge tonight?

Luckily, there never came the need to test just how close Gamble was willing to come. The apparent talent of the pilot extended to stopping as well as landing and the Learjet rolled to a labored halt before the two GMCs. Alex clapped and McCabe risked another look down the bridge behind them; the empty street; the city visible through the steel girders. He knew they were running out of time.

"All right. Let's turn this plane around," Gamble crowed, grinning back at his 'money'.

T.J. was more than willing to let Gamble's henchmen do the grunt work, maneuvering the jet into position suitable for take-off with a hand-operated tug. Still, he might've joined in if it would bring faster results. "We need to hurry," he mumbled, more to himself than anyone else but Gamble was within earshot.

"What?"

_They're coming. _"I said we need to get a move on," T.J. repeated tersely, a sudden surge of impatience beginning to drive against his nerves.

"Relax, T.J. We aren't going anywhere until that plane is facing the right end of the bridge. Can't exactly fly through steel here, man," he grinned a little too patronizingly for T.J.'s liking, though his eyes never left the rotating fuselage. When T.J. remained mute and Gamble noted his lack of humor, he patted his fellow ex-SWAT officer on the shoulder, "Don't worry so much, T.J. I planned this out. I know how they work. We got just enough time."

Really, he could've gone without the '_just'_; T.J. knew how 'they' worked, too. "So," T.J. muttered, "if Jose over here—" he gestured towards one of the men pulling the tug, "--has to bend down to tie his shoe. We're screwed?"

Gamble laughed at that, mistaking the fatalistic sarcasm for a return of the officer's characteristic witticism. By that time they'd almost fully turned the plane and he motioned for T.J. to lead on.

Only too glad to be moving again and distract himself from the growing sense of urgency, McCabe headed for the door and then hung back to provide an extra set of eyes…and barrel. Admittedly, it felt…wrong…hoisting the M4 from the low-ready and sighting down its length for any sign of Hondo and the team, people wearing the same uniform as he, despite the dirt on his now. Realistically, any member of the LAPD could be first on the scene. It would be Hondo, though; nothing would convince him otherwise. The sergeant wouldn't permit someone else to deal with his problems.

Back alongside the plane, he watched Gamble pull open the jet's hatch to reveal a rather flabbergasted gentleman—an elite snob, no doubt. T.J. didn't feel all that bad for him and he _heard_ the wife long before he saw her.

_Ah, damn_. He thought as Gamble dragged the man out and flung him across the asphalt, the entire scene dominated by the woman's wailing—"No no no, Richard!". Dear God, did Brian really expect them to fly all the way with _that_? T.J. climbed in after T and Alex. "Shut her up!" He snapped, settling himself in a seat across from the door, eyes unable to focus on anything except the outline of Gamble in the doorway. "Come on!"

* * *

Thanks to all of you who are reading this and thanks to those of you who are reviewing it! I really appreciate your comments! I'm going to start working on the fourth chapter soon.


	4. Goddamn If You Aren't a Free Man

_Disclaimer:_ Still don't own 'em. Nope. Characters belong to so-and-so and so-and-so. Not me.

Amazing, isn't it? Fourth chapter up within the same year as the third? Wow, hehe.

**Going Wrong**

By: SoldierToger (Kim Chancey)

**Chapter 4 – **GODDAMN IF YOU AREN'T A FREE MAN.

…Why'd they always have to pick the rookies for these things; the kids fresh out of the Academy? He'd always wondered about that back then, especially sitting at the bar listening to his 'pals' while they talked about nothing in particular; nothing of value to him, anyways. The lieutenant didn't want him reporting back about their latest hookups. Posing as a member of a drug-dealer's crew meant gathering better intel than that.

He later looked back on his undercover stint with the NYPD and understood the reason. Not that it changed anything. He was still here.

T.J. had barely fastened the jet's door when the report came. _Damn, Brian. This is too close._ A sudden dose of panic spilled down his throat but failed to take hold.

"You've got company! Limo broke containment!"

A limo?

T.J. didn't know why he was looking so earnestly out the passenger cabin's porthole of a window. Seeing the limousine wouldn't change anything. They all knew it didn't matter what they drove: it would still be Hondo's team. And it had to be Hondo behind the wheel even if the sergeant didn't like to drive. The whole image was just too absurd for him not to.

Visible between the bridge's steel columns, T.J. thought he saw the glossy black body of the limousine tearing down the road after them. When he made out the headlights, he turned away from the window.

The Leer jet's interior soundproofing muffled the automatic gunfire outside as Gamble's lackeys attempted to deter the oncoming luxury vehicle; 'attempted' being the optimum word. _Really? Just some muscle with rifles, Brian? Where're the tanks? The cement blockade? For shit's sake you landed a plane on the Goddamned Sixth Street Bridge, but you can't tuck an antitank gun in the back of that utility truck?_

T.J. decided to blame the woman's incessant blubbering for his sudden nerves. His heart pounded in his chest, but he willed away the doubt threatening to overcome him—panic no doubt rising in its wake. They were going to get off the bridge and he would see his millions. He had to keep reminding himself of that fact…for he couldn't afford to imagine any other future…

"Just keep on coming," Gamble muttered.

_No shit_, T.J. thought wryly, eyeing his partner in crime's phone as Gamble dialed a number. The sudden answering splash of orange and red light drew his eyes back to the window briefly, ironically hoping to catch some hint that the limo survived the explosion, but the angle prevented it. Again, T.J. had to suppress his regrets. Had he known Gamble would so recklessly—strategically?—try to _kill_ someone, he would've never stopped at 7th and Hope. So far, the death toll was still zero… He had to convince himself of that, too….

"…Goddamn if you aren't a free man!" Gamble crowed after ensuring they'd get their millions, pulling T.J. from his thoughts. A faint wave of excitement washed over him... Chagrined, T.J. noticed immediately the prospect of being a millionaire on the beach didn't do so much for him anymore…

The realization, that Hondo and the team still pursued them, stomped on his relief when automatic gunfire suddenly broke out behind them. T.J. inched ever so slightly from the window as bullets splashed against the fuselage. Finally Street and the others get to do some shooting of their own. Good for them.

"Get them off our asses," the pilot demanded.

"Just fly the plane," came Gamble's typical reply as he moved to the hatch. "Open the hatch. Open the hatch!" What the hell kind of shootout was this? Grabbing the back of Gamble's vest, T.J. watched him lean out the open doorway and return fire only to come back in a few moments later with a growl.

_Your move now, Hondo._ He thought, wondering what the sergeant would do. They didn't exactly cover tactical use of limousines against planes in training. The unknown worried him.

Glancing back out the window, dread welled up inside him as the black limo slid ominously into view behind the right wing. What was Hondo planning? He didn't want to find out. "Get this thing in the air!!" He watched, horrified, helpless while Hondo rammed the undercarriage, slamming the Swiss-cheesed vehicle into the jet's landing gear. The plane jerked with each impact. T.J.'s heart was in his throat.

The plane's nose lifted feebly. _Yes_

And dropped. _No_

They weren't going to make it.

As if to applaud his final acknowledgement of the obvious, the bizjet lurched violently, swerving and throwing its passengers into the walls. Legs, guns, Kevlar and defiant cries interspersed with terrified squeals tumbled about the cabin like salad bits. One of those bits caught T.J. upside the temple and he lost focus on the outside world for a bit, dizzy, feeling only the scrape of the plane's belly along the asphalt beneath him. The plane swerved sickeningly and T.J. found more than his heart lodged in his throat until, thankfully, the aircraft slid to a stop.

_Oh well that was fun_, he thought, his eyes shut to wait out the spinning sensation. He was vaguely aware of a great hustle within the cabin, of something pulling against him and then lifting away…

...They'd assured him repeatedly that it was ok, that it was over; he needed to let go of the gun. T.J. hadn't cared. So what if his shoulder ached and blood ran down his arm. Really, he'd forgotten all about the pistol in his hand as he limped across the asphalt. The paramedics could check on the bullet in his shoulder later. He'd needed to check on Kearney….

Swallowing back bile and lifting a hand to his temple, brow furrowed with the throbbing in his head, T.J. regained his senses. His fingers came back slick with his own blood.

The abrupt roar of an M4 burping somewhere above drew his attention back to the situation. He looked over to find Gamble tying a loop of tactical rope around the ever-crying hostage.

"Dammit," T.J. growled around the ache in his skull.

"Hope you got a plan B, brother," Gamble shook his head, barely looking up from his work to acknowledge the fact that, of course, McCabe had nothing of the sort…He'd never wanted to do this in the first place, not really… _You bastard_, was all T.J. could think, watching the helpless woman—human-shield now—cry out the window. "Just stay there. You're fine." Funny how he couldn't hate her now; didn't even find her annoying. Instead he felt sorry for her as he should've all along and he sympathized with her vulnerability for the two of them shared that trait now. He couldn't fathom the use of the rope, but knowing Gamble, it definitely had a purpose, she had a purpose. Gamble had a way out and if he didn't, he'd make one. What did T.J. have? Only the distant prayer that the renegade S.W.A.T. officer wouldn't shoot the woman once she'd outlived her usefulness. After all, he couldn't help her.

The two of them stepped out of the wreckage, leaving T.J. alone with his thoughts.

How could he have been so stupid? Why?

Bullets danced against the fuselage, but T.J. didn't flinch. Wincing, he shifted on the expansive faux leather seat, unaware his movement, the contrast of his vest verses the crème jet interior, caught a pair of eyes on the outside. A half-hearted scan of the floor confirmed his M4 was gone; probably the source of the automatic fire he'd heard first open up overhead. Someone must have taken it from him while he was out of it. Figures. Oh well. Reaching down, he pulled his Kimber Custom II from its holster and studied its sleek, cold frame. He switched the tactical light on.

Part of him wanted to peer out the porthole window, curious as to how his former-teammates fared. Why bother, though? He knew how it would end. So he sat back and tried not to listen to the shouts and pops outside. It didn't work. Without trying, he picked up on the decidedly different tempo to the firefight, the purposeful bursts of fire emerging from the initial maelstrom. What had once been two guns firing from the lee of the plane had become one, then none and he got a glimpse of Alex Montel fleeing down the bridge. The heavy thud of boots announced someone's pursuit; probably Deke. T.J. followed the invisible clambering, wishing the man luck even if he didn't need it. The guess was unfounded, but still he knew. Could it be so hard to place the players? Gamble was gone, Street no doubt following. Deke over the top after the frog. That left Sanchez and Hondo.

Oh God. Reality hit him—just how many times could it do that logically? Well, fuck logic, nothing about this bullshit was logical! He closed his eyes and desperately tried to swallow down the wave of despair bearing down on him. His life was ruined. They'd come for him soon. He wouldn't run. Where would he go?

Movement beyond the Plexiglas, quick but decisive. Hondo or Sanchez? Hadn't he heard someone shout out her name earlier? Had she been hit? He hoped not. Sure he'd been an asshole when they first met, skeptical of a woman on S.W.A.T. Hell, who hadn't been? Nevertheless, Sanchez had grown on him. She had eyes for Street, sure, but she wasn't his type anyway and that was before one even counted her baggage. No, he viewed her as an equal, trusted teammate in the end; simple as that. _Fuck. _What had he done?

T.J. clenched his eyes shut.

Why hadn't he listened to Kearny all those years ago? Why hadn't he gotten help? Because he didn't think it'd end up like this? Didn't think it'd catch up to him here on the opposite side of the country? Hah.

He opened his eyes just in time to spot the light beam highlighting the ground approaching the door. It could only be Hondo. The officer—former officer—fought the compulsion to fidget in his seat, to press himself into the wall and disappear before his sergeant saw him, trapped like the rat he was in all his shame. His pulse quickened.

Oddly enough, when the plane's gaping door revealed Hondo at last—gun-first naturally—T.J. didn't break down as he feared. He shuddered inside as the sergeant leveled his own Kimber Custom II's barrel at him. No theatrics just… sadness and regret cutting through him, oblivious to the bullet-proof vest and Kevlar.

How did it come to this?

…Oh yeah. That's how…


End file.
